There Were The Proud, The Prejudiced, And Then There Were None
by narcissagrey
Summary: Pride and Prejudice – And Then There Were None crossover. It does exactly what it says on the tin.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: I did not write _Pride and Prejudice_ and/or _And_ _Then There Were None_. I'm not Jane Austen or Agatha Christie either.

(But if any of you knows how I could become Christie and Austen at the same time, PM me. I'm more than willing to sell both of my kidneys. And my soul.)

* * *

Okay, first things first. This is a _Pride and Prejudice_ – _And Then There Were None_ crossover. I'm posting it in the _Pride and Prejudice_ section, because I'm a calculating little thing, and I know that this story would get little to no attention were I to post it in the crossover, or in the _Then There Were None_ section. Arrogant as it may sound, I'm putting time and work into this story, so I wish it to be exposed as much as possible.

Second. English is not my first language. Come to think of it, it's not even my second. This means two things: I'm more than happy to accept help from anyone. If there are any kind of grammatical mistakes in the text (oh, and there are!) I cannot wait for them to be pointed out to me. Really. But, please be NICE. I'm trying to do my best here. The other thing is: I'm desperate for a beta. I'm not a really organised, collected person by nature, but I become all kinds of fidgety when it comes to grammar. It would make me sleep so much easier at night if I knew that there were no grammatical mistakes or plot holes in the text.

Third. If you haven't read Agatha Christie's " _And Then There Were None_ " and/or Jane Austen's " _Pride and Prejudice_ " this story probably is not for you. There will be lots of hidden jokes, hints and references and I will not stop and explain every little thing on the way. These novels are entertaining, and considered classics in their own field. If you haven't read them, well, you should, because it would be good for you, and it's not like they are _that_ long.

Fourth. There's a reason why I've decided to go with the names in Christie's work instead of Austen's. I cannot explain it now, because then I would have to spoil the whole thing, but it will be worth it in the end, so try to keep up with me. I made a list to clear up who's who in the story. You will be able to read it after my little rant. I tried real hard to match the different personalities, and probably because of that, I had to make some gender-bending. It will not interfere with the story too much, I hope.

Fifth, and this is the last point, I swear. This story was brought to life because a dear friend of mine asked me to. I'm big fan of both Agatha Christie and Jane Austen. (I'm majoring in English, after all. Even though it's applied linguistics.) I'm not that big fan of fanfictions, however. Don't get me wrong, it has nothing to do with the idea in general – and I really understand the urge to dream up situations different from canon for characters we love or loathe – but there are so many fanfictions out there that are… yucky, to say at the very least. What I wish to say is, I'm not one hundred percent convinced I should be doing this. I don't know how this whole thing will turn out, and I would hate myself if I didn't do justice to two amazing female writers – or at least try to. At the same time, I realize there are certain expectations to be met by readers. I will try to find a balance between the two; suggestions are more than welcome.

* * *

And now without further ado, here's our casting!

Judge Wargrave – Judge Catherine DeBourgh

Vera Claythorne – Elizabeth Bennet

Philip Lombard – William Darcy

Anthony Marston – Richard Fitzwilliam

Dr. Edward Armstrong – Dr. William Collins

General Macarthur – General Forster

Mr. Rogers – Mrs. Reynolds

Mrs. Rogers – Mr. Reynolds

Detective William Henry Blore – Detective George Wickham

Miss Emily Brent – Miss Charlotte Lucas

Fred Narracott – Fred Gardiner

Isaac Morris – No idea as of yet. Suggestions?


	2. Chapter 2

DISCLAIMER: I did not write _Pride and Prejudice_ and/or _And_ _Then There Were None_. I'm not Jane Austen or Agatha Christie either.

(But if any of you knows how I could become Christie and Austen at the same time, PM me. I'm more than willing to sell both of my kidneys. And my soul.)

* * *

Chapter 1

Vera Claythorne - Elizabeth Bennet

Vera Claythorne was having a bad dream. In her dream, she saw the coastline again, sunny and warm, the surface of the water reflecting back the blinding whiteness of the sun. The sharp edges of the rocks in the distance cutting into the material of the horizon, black and foreboding. The cries of the seagulls, sharp but familiar.

Another kind of cry, a woman, collapsing next to a small, lifeless body. A pair of eyes looking up into hers, trusting, hopeful; the flawless blue sky reflecting back on the big, round glasses. A young boy's eyes. The same eyes, just an hour later, now half-closed, forever staring up into the same flawless blue sky. She, sitting next to him on the wet sand, shivering and choking, but without tears in her eyes or remorse in her heart. Then another pair of eyes, this time belonging to a young man, a pair of eyes she would recognize anywhere, anytime… Looking at her with cheerfulness, with understanding, with love, with desire; and then with fear and shock and anger and – worst of all – disgust and hate. That look made her cry out in despair; suddenly, the train jolted under her and she was fully awake. She stretched anxiously. She was always restless on longer journeys – she wasn't used to sit this much in one place. How she longed to roam vast, open spaces right now! Tall, dewy grass brushing her knees, sharp rocks under her palm as she climbed over them, wet sand under her feet, slightly sinking in under her weight.

This brought her back to her dream.

"Hugo" she thought. "If only I knew then what I know now…"

It will not do to dwell on these memories. She didn't have the right qualifications for this job, but she was picked none the less, so she had to stay focused. She needed the job. She needed the money. Whatever happened in the past will remain in the past. Vera Claythorne was a strong-willed young woman who always followed through no matter what. If she was determined that the past will remain the past, then it cannot be in any other way. _She will not let it be any other way._

* * *

Doctor Edward Armstrong – Doctor William Collins

The car was running smoothly. The weather was nice. He was going to spend a fine, relaxing weekend on an island. Even if it was work, there was no reason for him not to enjoy himself. A little relaxation was all he needed. Perhaps there will be other guests to mingle with. Important people, even. The letter said as much. It will be a very pleasant weekend. If only his hands would stop shaking.

* * *

Mr. Rogers – Mrs. Reynolds

The house was ready to welcome the guests. She saw to that. Diligence and precision were crucial in her line of work. It was never easy to run a household, but she loved the challenge. Stopping in the grand hall on her way to the kitchen, she looked into the big mirror on the wall. Her hands smoothed down her skirt and tucked back a stray strand of grey hair into her otherwise impeccable chignon. She nodded to her reflection. She looked the part of the ideal servant. Inconsequential but reliable all the same. Now if only she could find that useless, idiotic husband of hers and make sure he did everything he was trusted with – they had guests to accommodate very soon.

* * *

General John MacArthur – General John Forster

The scenery was changing rapidly on the other side of the window as the train tore through land, the rolling hills of infinite green turning into more rocky ground with long, dry grass. Too rapidly, according to the general. All this rush and haste, what good it did? No good at all. It belonged to young, hot-headed men and women. All impatient and impulsive. Making rash decisions. Well, the consequences of one's rash decisions always catch up with one. The general was a patient, strategic man. He always waited, calm and composed, for the right moment, and then struck down on his opponent. This tactic served him more than well in the war. It made him survive. And it served him well in his personal life too. He knew he made a mistake when he married a woman twenty years his junior, but he was so in love. He acted like a love-struck young lad barely out of the school-room, for God's sake! But one's rash decisions always catch up with one. When he realized the depth of his mistake, he did not make a scene like some excitable, jealous young lover. It was high time to act like a man of his age. His patient, calculating way of thinking helped him in the war. There was no reason not to exercise the same principles in his marriage. He waited patiently, until the right moment came… and then he struck down on his opponent.

"All's fair in love and war." Murmured the general. There was the distinct scent of salt in the air. It was the scent of the sea, and the scent of blood. "All three of us must have known that we will have to pay for our actions. And we did."

* * *

Mrs. Rogers – Mr. Reynolds

Mr. Rogers was very afraid. In fact, he was afraid of a great many things. In this moment for instance, he was afraid that he forgot something.

"Did I made up the bed in the green room? Yes, I most certainly did. Yes. Yes, I remember now. I've done it in the morning already, didn't I? Yes. Or did I? What if I did not? Maybe it was the blue room? It's almost the same colour. Should I check it again? Yes, yes I should. Just to make sure. Yes." He turned back towards the direction he just came from, but stopped almost immediately. The corridor was empty and eerily quiet. The wind was blowing hard outside, but he heard none of it.

"No. I don't have the time. There are other things to do. I wouldn't want to anger Mrs. Rogers." He shuddered. Just the thought of it made his heart beat violently in his chest.

Mr. Rogers was also very afraid of his wife. He wiped his sweaty palms into his pants and resolutely started walking back towards the green room. Better safe than sorry. He stopped himself again, this time in front of the door.

"But if I made up the bed already, I'm wasting time." He reached for the doorknob. It was a nice brass doorknob with intricate detail, but all he saw was one more thing that needed a daily polish. Just like at their previous place. His hands started sweating again. He may be afraid that he forgot something, and he may be afraid of his wife; but the thing he was most afraid of was the past. His previous workplace. He snatched his hand back from the knob, but it was too late. He will have to clean and polish it again. But first he had to check the bed once more. Then he will polish the –

His head snapped up, alarmed.

"Did I clean the silverware?"

He scurried down the hall, his heart in his throat, green room and bedsheets all forgotten.

* * *

Judge Wargrave – Catherine DeBourgh

Judge Wargrave was sitting, despite her old age, with her spine erect, her shoulders pulled back and her head held high. Long years of respectability and responsibility taught her to always carry herself with the outmost dignity. She had a reputation to uphold. The shades of justice should not be polluted.

She was holding a letter in her hands; hands that looked much like they were covered with paper instead of skin – a single ring on her left pinkie with a big ruby in it. She never married – she needed no one in her life to help her on the way to success, and love was an alien idea to her.

Sometimes she stole a glance at the letter, an almost knowing look in her eyes, just to turn back to the window. She was close to her destination now.

"I just hope we will be on time." She detested tardiness. Things always had to go according to plan.

She recalled the first part of her letter. Mr. U. N. Owen, whoever he might be, had written her without knowing her. That was a bold move, but then again, she rather liked bold people. They did as they pleased. They were interesting. During her time as a judge, she met a lot of bold people. They were usually foolish, too, thinking that they will be able to escape justice. Her old, wrinkled faces contorted into a crooked smile as she thought about how their fate reached them all, one by one. Justice was served.

* * *

Phillip Lombard – William Darcy

His cigarette was burning low as he stood at the edge of the cliff, hands in his pockets, carefully examining the sea, a stoic expression on his face. A storm was coming. There was always a storm coming, wasn't there? Everything seemed grey; from the silvery waves crushing against the dark rocks to the ash-coloured sky, and the heavy clouds with a tint of scarlet to them. The sun was setting fast now – it wasn't summer anymore. He pulled the collar of his coat even higher as the wind cut his face like a knife, then checked his watch. The other guests shouldn't be long now. But this weather! He was so used to Africa, to the dry heat of the desert, he almost forget what it was like to be home in England. Home… not that he ever knew anything that came close to that term. He was somewhat well-off, yes, the diamond-business was thriving, and he owned a house in London, but he never cared for London. He usually let it out for the whole year, then went to wherever the wind had blown him. The less civilization, the better. Suddenly, he wished he didn't accept the offer– he didn't need the money, really – and there was a strange feeling at the back of his throat, like a lump he couldn't swallow. He wasn't afraid; Philip Lombard learned early in his life that fear was only an excuse to run away from things we didn't like. No, he wasn't _afraid,_ but for a moment he felt like he got a glimpse into the future, and there was nothing there. Nothing. His own life meant as little to him as other people's life, but this emptiness made him wary of times to come. He felt for his gun at the small of his back, tucked into his pants. It felt good; safe and familiar. He took a last drag from his cigarette, the smoke mixing with the salty air in his lungs. There was a car, a red, shiny beast coming up on the road with high speed. It was time.

* * *

Miss Emily Brent – Miss Charlotte Lucas

Their train got in late, but Miss Brent didn't mind. She preferred punctuality, yes, but everything happened according to the Lord's will. She never understood why people couldn't see it. Young people, especially. Her heart bled for all those poor, misguided souls, but one had to be practical. And fear the word of God. It was Christian duty to forgive errors and lapses in judgement, but it was also Christian duty to punish them. That was the only way to make sure they never happened again.

"The Lord shall judge the people: judge me, o Lord, according to my righteousness, and according to mine integrity that is in me."

* * *

Anthony Marston – Richard Fitzwilliam

Richard Fitzwilliam was light-heartedly whistling the tune of a scandalous little song with questionable lyrics. It didn't take much to make him happy – he was of happy disposition ever since he was a child. He was amiable, jovial and well-liked wherever he went. His motto was simple.

"Never take anything too seriously." – He said out loud to himself in a sing-along voice. It always worked for him. He was living his life with all the ease and carelessness of a playboy. He knew he was going to get old and die once, but that was far away, and why shouldn't he have some fun until then?

He sped up, listening lovingly to the purring of the engine. He loved his car. And speed. True, it got him into some trouble once or twice, but even in those cases, it wasn't really _his_ fault. People should look around before they step out onto the open road. This was the twentieth century, what did they expect, horses and carriages?  
He laughed out loud as he caught up with some grumpy old driver and managed to slightly run him off the road. The driver got out, and shouted after him, shaking his fists.

He looked back at him over his shoulder and laughed harder. These old people. Didn't they realize that their time was up?

* * *

Detective Henry Blore – Detective George Wickham

"Never mind the change. Here, take this." – said Detective Henry Blore, handing some money to the driver as the car stopped at the small bay. He grabbed his bags and got out. There were already people standing on the dock with suitcases and trunks, he noted angrily. He tried to arrive first, booking a room at the only inn in the small village the day before. He wanted to explore the area a little bit, to ask around about the island and such, but the barmaid at the tavern was friendly and somewhat prettyish – and now he was late.

"Blast it all! This is probably for the best." – He took a moment to observe the group before joining them.

"One, two, three… five, six. Sounds about right. Someone's not here." – He really wanted to pull out his notepad and check the facts once more, but he didn't have the time, and he couldn't risk being noticed. He had to act like a decent, average gentleman trading in tins and canned food. Likeable, but nothing too noteworthy.

His eyes squinted as his gaze travelled from person to person. The young man in the dashing suit and sunglasses had to be Anthony Marston. Next to him a middle-aged woman around thirty… no, more like forty… Miss Brent. Yes. Two gentlemen, one in a fine, well-tailored suit talking animatedly to the other, who didn't seem to feel comfortable in his – probably wasn't used to it – the doctor and the general? Yes, the older man had to be General MacArthur; his whole air and stance cried a military man. They already seemed to be on friendly terms – interesting. His eyes moved further along. Now there was something for sore eyes. A nice pair of legs if he ever saw one. Miss Vera Claythorne, the ex-gymnastic teacher, obviously. The old witch must be Judge DeBourgh.

"Are we not going to join them?" – He heard a deep voice from behind. He spun around, only to come face to face with a tall, dark-haired man. He had a knowing, wolfish smile. Blore didn't like that smile at all. And he didn't like the man either, that's for sure. Phillip Lombard. How long has he been watching him? And what did he observe?

The man in question gestured with his hand, and as Blore reluctantly moved forward, Lombard introduced himself.

"Phillip Lombard. You were quite lost in your thoughts, Mr. - ?"

"Davis. Mr. Davis. Nice to meet you Mr. Lombard."

"Oh" said Mr. Lombard, his dangerous grin widening. "The pleasure's all mine."


	3. Chapter 3

DISCLAIMER: I did not write _Pride and Prejudice_ and/or _And_ _Then There Were None_. I'm not Jane Austen or Agatha Christie either.

(But if any of you knows how I could become Christie and Austen at the same time, PM me. I'm more than willing to sell both of my kidneys. And my soul.)

Also, shout-out to the guest reviewer who pointed out the problem with the title. I feel so silly that I've missed it! Thank you!

* * *

Chapter 2

Fred Narracott spit out some tobacco while he docked his boat. He put all the luggage at the back, then helped the passengers get in. The boat was named _Unsinkable II_ – a small glimmer of the dry humour he possessed, but people haven't suspected him capable of. These guests were unusual, he could tell as much. Something was afoot. He wasn't a seaman for the last forty-five years for nothing. He could smell a rat, and there was a rat on this small boat as they ran out to open sea.  
His train of thought paused here for a moment as he manoeuvred the boat towards the right direction. The water was already stormy, the waves licking the side of the boat, white specks of fume occasionally splashing down on the deck. A smooth sea never made a skilled mariner, but the storm that was coming will be something they haven't seen in the last ten years. Strange weather for throwing a party. The rich, posh people who usually bought the house on the island, one after the other, held their gatherings during the summer, when the weather was pleasant, and the water smooth. That's what they liked, these rich folks. There was talk among the villagers about a movie star purchasing the island and the house, not that he ever paid much attention to gossiping. Gossip was for petticoats, and he wanted none of it, but he couldn't help catching the murmurs about the new owner while he was nursing his drink at the village's only tavern.

Looking at them, huddled together, tense and silent, they didn't look much like people going to a house party, either. As if sensing his gaze, one of them, the young woman, perked up and turned to him:

"Are we close now?" – Her voice was strong and confident.

A fine young lass, that one. And by the looks of it, smart too.

"Aye." He answered slowly, carefully chewing every letter before uttering them. "You can see the Soldier Island jus' o'er the horizon'."

At this, everyone turned around and watched as the looming, dark rocks got closer and closer. Soon, they were able to distinguish the form of a house on the top of the cliffs. Some windows were lit up, spilling golden warmth into the descending fog.

Fred Narracott helped them out, then handed them their suitcases.

"Are you not going to help with the luggage?"

"Nay. Twas said that I should bring you to the island. I wasn' paid for yer trunks." After a moment of deliberation, he added. "And I won't set foot on this island."

They looked at each other, surprised.

"Well then" – said the old, military-looking gentleman. "Thank you Mr. Narracott."

"Sir." Fred nodded, touching his hat. He nodded once more to the others, then set out to go back. If he was in any luck, his dinner would be still warm when he got home. He looked back at them once more, standing on the shore, solemn and motionless. He had a bad feeling in his guts, but he shook it off.

These people weren't his concern. They came willingly, God knows why.

* * *

Mrs. Rogers greeted everyone as they entered. When she saw them, hands full with luggage, she felt irritated.

"That no-good, lazy Fred Narracott. Making them carry their own luggage. Wouldn't raise a hand without being paid first." She thought. Out loud, she cheerily said. "Welcome Miss… Ma'am… Sir, Sir… welcome… May I take your coat? Your hat? Mr. Rogers, help the lady with her suitcase! – She added sternly. Mr. Rogers dashed forward, and bowed twice to Vera before reaching for her bags.

"Please" Vera said "I'm also part of the staff. I'm Mr. Owen's new secretary, Miss Vera Claythorne."

"I beg your pardon, Miss" Mr. Roger's face flushed "but we have clear orders to treat you as a guest. Now, if you please, I will show you to your room." With that, he grabbed Vera's bags and started up the stairs.

Meanwhile, in the grand hall Judge Wargrave was getting slightly impatient.

"What do you mean the Smithson's are not here yet? I am most seriously displeased. I was told they will be here. I _came here_ because I was told I could meet them. How many other guests are you expecting?"

"None at the moment, ma'am. With the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Owen, we are expecting no other guests."

"This is unacceptable. All this traveling, for nothing."

"If you would follow me to your room ma'am, you would be able to rest and refresh yourself before dinner."

Judge Wargrave sniffed and went after Mrs. Rogers. Lombard smiled at the other occupant of the room.

"Well, Mr. Davis, looks like we have quite the company here, don't you think? Mr. Davies?"

"Oh, yes, yes, excuse me, I was lost in my thoughts." – Blore choked on his words as he realized that he forgot to pay attention to his alleged name.

"Lost in your thoughts? Why, that makes it two times already, and we haven't even had dinner yet." With that, Lombard left in three long, confident strides, hands in his pockets.

"Cheeky bastard." Muttered Blore, then, upon realizing that he was alone, set out to inspect his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was some kind of a text, framed, hanging next to the coat rack.

* * *

At the very same moment, in a room upstairs, General MacArthur was looking at the same poem.

"Well, not really a poem. More like a silly little rhyme for children." He thought. It made him nostalgic; he remembered being a child, when his nanny used to teach rhymes to him, clapping the rhythm with her hands. And had he ever been able to have children, he would have taught them the same rhyme. He mentally shook himself. It was too late for this now. Ethel was dead, and so was Arthur. Two people, whom he loved more than anything. Both of them long gone. He was still alive, and he felt justified at what he did, but that didn't make him any less alone.

* * *

These servants nowadays, they couldn't be trusted with anything. Miss Emily Brent was standing, hands on her hips, inspecting a bed which very clearly wasn't made up. The room was nice otherwise, with a pleasant green wallpaper and green curtains, and some paintings on the walls. Miss Brent sighed and bent down to stretch and smooth the sheets. She was raised up to be a gentlewoman, but she was also hard-working and sensible. Hard work and humbleness pleased the Lord, after all. She was capable of making her own bed.

A few minutes later, as she finished by puffing up the pillows, something caught her eye. It wasn't a landscape like all the other frames. Stepping closer, she squinted at the letters, then went in search for her reading glasses.

* * *

Doctor Armstrong steadied his hands at the back of a chair. There were bad days and good days, and he was having a really bad day at the moment. This whole affair stressed him out. Something was not right, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. And that wild, young driver who run him off the road? He was here! He recognized the fire-engine-red car as soon as he pulled in next to it. Who did he think was? He could have caused an accident, with his recklessness and all! And he was so stupid to come here! Hoping to earn a little extra money, meeting some important people… apart from the judge, none of them seemed to be prominent people. They were of no use to him.

But perhaps he could converse a little with the judge. Flatter her a little. He prided himself on his smooth social skills. It never hurt to be on good terms with someone as influential as a judge. She seemed vaguely familiar. Yes. Doctor Armstrong was fairly certain he has seen her in a newspaper once, in connection with some gruesome murder. She was clearly an important person. And the good doctor loved important people. He couldn't help it; he felt a strange pull towards them, like a moth to the flame. Being close to them made him feel important, too.

"Maybe this weekend isn't a complete disaster, yet." – He thought to himself as he started dressing for dinner. He did not want to be late, least the judge think him tardy.

He walked over to the mirror on the far wall, to adjust his bowtie. His hands started shaking again. How he wanted a scotch on the rocks right now… well, none of that. He will never drink again. He promised himself as much on that fateful day. He didn't need alcohol; all he needed was something he could focus on, so his hands would stop trembling.

There was a framed paper on the wall, next to the mirror, with some kind of verse on it. He started to read it, willing his fingers to steady.

 _"Ten little soldier boys went out to dine; One choked his little self and then there were nine._

 _Nine little soldier boys sat up very late; One overslept himself and then there was eight._

 _Eight little soldier boys travelling in Devon; One said he'd stay there and then there were seven._

 _Seven little soldier boys chopping up sticks; One chopped himself in halves and then there were six._

 _Six little soldier boys playing with a hive; A bumblebee stung one and then there were five._

 _Five little soldier boys going in for law; One got in Chancery and then there were four._

 _Four little soldier boys going out to sea; A red herring swallowed one and then there were three._

 _Three little soldier boys going to the zoo; A big bear hugged one and then there were two._

 _Two little soldier boys playing with a gun; One shot the other and then there was one._

 _One little soldier boy left all alone; He went and hanged himself and then there were none."_


End file.
